


Beloved of Monsters

by Whitefox



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: "good" ending, Blood and Wine DLC spoilers, Dragons, Fix-It, M/M, post-Blood and Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitefox/pseuds/Whitefox
Summary: Post-canon; DLC spoilers!Syanna attempts some bonding over shared interests in the Land of a Thousand Fables.  As a result, Geralt is a bit more concerned about Regis's fate in the end of B&W.  (Now a bit more slashy.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've only played the third game and read the first book, so apologies for any lore errors! I hope someone enjoys regardless :) I wasn't ready to say goodbye to these two quite yet.

**I.**

 

“So, you seem pretty thick with these vamps yourself, for a witcher.”

Geralt eyed Syanna distrustfully but kept his peace.  He thought they’d been getting along reasonably well and that suited his purposes fine for the moment, but he hadn’t forgotten what she’d done to the people of Toussaint and to his friend.  Maybe some people would be disarmed by the unicorns and the purple trees and huge fucking rainbow in the sky, but Geralt was not one of those people.  He’d never seen a fairy tale that ended well.

She was smiling now, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. 

"Care to share a story of your own, Geralt?” she asked.  “How did you meet your vampire?”

_Your vampire_.  Geralt didn’t know what she meant by that and didn’t like where this was going, but he was loathe to risk encouraging it by asking questions.  Dangerous things tended to bite when poked.  “Long story.  Rather not get into it.”

“Hmm, well now that is disappointing.  I’ve shown you mine, but you won’t return the favour? And here I thought we could bond over the hardships of being the beloved of immortal monsters.  Though you don’t seem to mind quite as much as I did, I’ll admit.  Maybe you care to share some tips?”

Geralt thought a good place to start would be not to get involved with anyone you considered a monster, but he figured someone like Syanna probably wasn’t looking for that kind of advice.  As if he was in any position to give it, anyway.  “Don’t know what you think you’re getting at, but from the sound of it you knew exactly what you were doing.  ‘Don’t be a heartless manipulator’ is pretty obvious as far as tips go.”

Syanna didn’t even blink at the barb.  She knew what she was.  “Oh, please.  Don’t be coy.  I’ve been there, remember?  I recognize the way he looks at you.  We’re part of a very exclusive club, you and I.”

“Just to be clear: you talking about Regis here?  Cause you lost me some time ago.”

“Do you have more than one higher vampire willing to give his life for you?  If so, colour me impressed.  Maybe I _would_ like some tips.”

“Regis wouldn’t—” Geralt cut himself off with a frustrated huff.  “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re seeing here, but I’ve known Regis for years.  We’ve been through some stuff together so yeah, we’re close.  I’d consider him one of my closest friends in fact, and I was damn happy to see him again in one piece.  But that’s it, all right?  He’s not going to go around burning up cities if I say something that upsets him.”

“Your vampire does seem much more…reserved than mine, that’s true,” Syanna allowed.  Geralt wished she would quit with the possessive pronouns and just use their names.  “He’s better at pretending to be human, maybe so good that you’ve forgotten he’s not.”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt growled.  “Not likely.”

“So you say.  True, you might be aware of the physical differences, the claws and fangs, the immense strength and that convenient trick where they can puff through locked doors.  But do you really understand the way they think?  The way they feel?  I’ve been closer than you have, _witcher_.  Love for higher vampires is different.  It’s all-consuming, uncontrollable, and there’s no escaping it, not really.  Once they think of you as their pack, there’s no going back.  Yours might act more refined than mine, but underneath the currents are the same.  I think you’d be surprised what your Regis would do for you, if it came to it.  I’d suggest you use it to your advantage, but…” she shrugged.  “We’ve seen how well that worked out for me.” 

“You’re claiming all this wisdom based on an experience with one vampire,” Geralt scoffed, losing patience fast.  “You know how ridiculous that would be if you were talking about humans?  But sure, if it helps you to sleep better at night then by all means, keep thinking of him as a crazy monster you had no control over…except for how you orchestrated this entire mess, of course.”

Syanna’s pink unicorn came to an abrupt stop on the path ahead as she turned to glare at him properly, her red riding hood cape flaring around her.  Seemed he’d struck a real nerve, finally.

“You’re forgetting, I did love him once,” she hissed.  “You call me heartless, but what you’re doing is no better.  Do you have even the slightest idea what a love like that can do to an immortal?  You’re not getting any younger, you know.  How many years do you figure you have left, if a griffin doesn’t take you out tomorrow?  A decade?  A century?  He’ll be around for _millennia_ and he’ll remember you every one of those days.  All he’ll have are memories, and you’re wasting what little time you have left to make some good ones.  There’s a point where willful ignorance becomes just as cruel as what I did, Geralt.  Think on that.  And watch how much he does for you, before this is over.”

Geralt sneered, but before he could speak she whirled around and was trotting away towards Longlocks’ tower, her unicorn’s unshod hooves thudding on the path.  He sat in sullen silence for a few moments, but when unicorn-Roach moved to follow her pink companion, he didn’t stop her. 

What Syanna had said was garbage of course, her own twisted attempts to justify what she’d done and get back at him for catching her.  Regis had promised not to interfere if Geralt went up against Dettlaff again, true, but he would do everything in his power to avoid that and his friend knew it.  That was a far cry from burning down a city and killing hundreds of innocents.  Geralt trusted Regis with his life and he knew in his bones that trust was not misplaced.  And even if -  _if_ \- there was any truth in Syanna's tirade, Regis's secrets were his to keep or reveal as he chose.

In any event, even if he hadn’t managed to get the last word Geralt was happy to be done hearing her nonsense, and he’d be happier still to get the last bean and get out of this creepy, screwed up fairy tale. The real world was often just as bad, true, but at least it was a damned sight less pink. 

 

*

 

**II.**

 

Geralt watched his friend closely as he returned to sit by the fire.  There were no visible signs of the higher vampire’s fight with the bruxae, but that didn’t surprise Geralt; there were very few beings on this earth that could pose a true threat to a higher vampire.  Regis didn’t have a scratch on him, even his clothes had barely been ruffled.  The emotional weight though, the significance of the event – that Geralt could see clearly in the resigned look in his eyes, in the great gulps he took of his special brew.

Geralt found himself deeply unsettled.  Try as he might to dismiss it, Syanna’s words from the fairy tale world continued to ring in his head.  As ridiculous as he still felt her theory was, Regis had surprised him in the past few weeks.  Not only had he not tried to stop Geralt in that final confrontation with Detlaff, but when his blood brother had first leapt to attack, Regis had intervened to _protect_ Geralt, so quick it had seemed instinctive, automatic, and apparently heedless of the danger he himself faced in fighting another of his kind.  When Geralt had finally been able to slip his own sword into the fray, they had put Detlaff on the defensive with ease, slipping effortlessly into their old patterns of teamwork.  It had been…well, thrilling.  Despite it not being his choice of occupation, Geralt did enjoy his work.  Fighting one of the most powerful creatures in existence at the side of one of his best friends, who just so happened to be one of the same creatures…well, it wasn’t an experience the witcher would forget anytime soon. And it definitely hadn’t been expected.

And at the end of it, Regis had finished Detlaff off for good.  Without even being asked, and apparently in full knowledge that it would make him a leper among his own kind.  No matter what Syanna thought, Geralt knew not all vampires were the same, just like humans as a whole defied generalizations.  But it did seem to him like this could be mild-mannered, ethical and self-sacrificing Regis’s version of burning a city down. He wouldn’t hurt innocents, but he’d burned down his own life instead.

But surely that was melodramatic, Geralt tried to reason with himself.  Regis had always seemed to enjoy the company of humanity, and that wouldn’t change.  He would have his books too, and his experiments, and he was at heart a scholar and a philosopher.  It wasn’t as bad as all that. 

…Still.  Something felt off.

“Discovered a fondness for grey and haggard visages, my friend?  Or did I get blood on my face?”

Geralt blinked, caught staring.  “Well, I am rather fond of my own.”

That got a smile out of the higher vampire, and Geralt was cheered to see it.

“Come,” Regis said, “you are one of the least vain men I have had the privilege to meet.  Though it must be said, you’ve more reason to be than most of the truly vain people I’ve known.”

“Sure one of those bruxae didn’t get you in the eye?” Geralt drawled, but found himself smiling.  He didn’t think that warm feeling in his chest was all from Regis’s brew, either.  Regis seemed to understand, because he just smiled back and took a long sip from his mug.

And suddenly, Geralt knew what to do.

“Come stay at Corvo Bianco,” he blurted.  Regis’s eyebrows began to climb up his face but Geralt soldiered ahead.  “Guest room could use some use.  Just got it redone too, and believe me, it wasn’t cheap.  Did I tell you I hired on that spotted wight as my cook?  Sure you guys would have a lot to talk about.”

Regis stared, successfully thrown off track for a moment.  “What—”  He paused, shook his head.  “Never mind.  Geralt, you understand what being anathema means, don’t you?  I will be hunted, night and day.  I need to go…south, somewhere my kind is not, where humans have forgotten what to look for.  I am unsafe, for you, and for your…strange cook.”

Geralt knew what Regis was saying was logical.  It probably wouldn’t even be such an awful life, for a time.  His friend would surely find much to interest him in the southern realms, after being disconnecting from human progress during his time as a blood smear.  But Syanna’s words wouldn’t leave him be, and whether there was any truth to them or not, Geralt’s company had already visibly lightened the dark cloud hanging over his friend.  Regis had just killed his blood brother.  Geralt knew he would never truly understand the significance of that, but he was pretty sure Regis shouldn’t be alone right now.

“You forgetting who did all the heavy lifting in that fight?  If one of your kind couldn’t take me out, don’t think you need to worry about a bunch of ekimmara finishing the job.  I’ll give the staff a vacation, give us time to test things out, work out a perimeter.  Even lesser vamps should work out pretty quick that the witcher’s vineyard is not the place to have a fun time.  BB tells me the crop’s shot for this year anyway, something about bugs, wasn’t really paying close attention.”

Regis was suspiciously quiet and wouldn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, preferring to stare into his mug instead.  “What about…other guests?  I doubt Yennefer will enjoy wading through a pack of my lesser brethren every time she wishes to say hello.” 

The subject change seemed odd to Geralt, but he was willing to roll with it, for now.  “Don’t think that’ll be a problem.  Be surprised if Yen even knows I’m here.”

“Oh?” Regis looked up now, and there was obvious concern in his eyes.

“Yeah.  Complicated.”

“Geralt,” Regis chided, disapproving but affectionate.  “You know I need more than that.  When weren’t things complicated between you two?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.  No one was as persistent at getting him to talk about his emotions as Regis was.  It was damn irritating, especially since it almost always worked. 

“Fine,” he growled, but Regis only smiled beatifically at the harsh tone.  “We lifted the spell.  Didn’t expect anything to change, but, well.  We’ll always be…close, but it messes with your head, knowing a spell influenced you that way.  Things are different now.”

“So you’re not…”

“No.”

“Do you regret it?  Lifting the spell?”

Geralt shot Regis an annoyed glare, but the higher vampire just kept gazing at him with those intent, concerned eyes.  Geralt huffed and looked out into the night.  “No.  I miss how it used to be, I guess, but it was exhausting too.  Always butting heads, going back and forth like a yo-yo, never able to stay away no matter what awful things we said to each other.  Always better to see things for what they are and not be bound by illusions.”

“Wise words, my friend.  I’ll drink to that.”

There was a comfortable lull as they both drained their mugs and sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the wind through the trees and the crackle and pop of the fire.  It was strange in itself, for Regis to be silent this long.  Silences were never awkward around the vampire, but he simply seemed to have too many thoughts in his head at all times to allow silences to go on for too long when he could instead be philosophizing.  However, since his future looked to contain a lot more philosophizing and lot less silence if he had his way, Geralt was content to sit and enjoy this one for however long it lasted.  It might seem like their conversation had drifted away and left his question unanswered, but he knew Regis hadn’t forgotten. 

“Two conditions.”

Geralt looked up from the fire and blinked.  Was that faint light through the trees?  Had they truly been sitting here all night?  “Name them.”

“One, I shan’t use the guest room.  I don’t need to sleep and besides, I shall be quite paranoid enough about the danger I’m placing you in without having you out of my sight all night.”

“You’re asking to watch me sleep.  That’s creepy, Regis.”

“I am not.  I am asking to watch _over_ your sleep, there is a difference.  And actually, it is not in fact a request, if you truly wish me to be your houseguest.”

Geralt rolled his eyes yet again to cover the urge to smile.  “Fine.  And the other?”

“You allow me to invite Cirilla to the vineyard.”

Geralt frowned.  “I’m sure Ciri’s got her own things to do.  Far too busy being the best witcheress in history to be checking up on her old man so soon.”

“And if that’s the case, she shall surely tell my bird as much when it finds her.  How long has it been since you saw her?”

Geralt shrugged.  “Yen keeps track of her.  She knows she can reach us if she needs us.”  Which wasn’t an answer, Geralt knew, but he wasn’t about to admit that he knew exactly how many days had passed since he and his daughter parted ways.  Regis probably knew anyway, damn him.

“That is not the same thing and you know it,” Regis confirmed, and Geralt felt the corner of his mouth tick up into a half-smile against his will.  “Are you truly going to fight me more on this than allowing a higher vampire to watch you sleep, as you put it?”

“Whoever said I was dumb enough to fight you at all?”

Regis grinned widely, for the second time since the attack, and Geralt felt a warm bloom of pride.  “I’ve always said you were wise.  For a witcher.”

“Oh yeah?  Found witchers to be generally wiser than most humans, myself.”

“Well now, you and I both know that’s a particularly low bar to clear,” Regis retorted, still grinning.  “Most witchers whom I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet – with the uniquely charming exception of yourself, of course – have been in the context of them attempting to fulfill a contract on my head which, you’ll grant, is not the wisest course of action.”

“True.  And if any of them got close, they’d have a certain white wolf to answer to.”

“Careful, Geralt.  Soon knights errant far and wide will be flocking to Corvo Bianco to free it of its tragic vampire re-infestation.  So dire a situation, they say, that even the resident witcher, famed though he is in tale and song, is unable to rid his lands of this pest.”

“No doubt because he is already in thrall to the beast.  He is peerless in combat after all, or so I hear.”

“Of course.  This monster must have been working on him for years from the shadows.  But who can blame the witcher?  Such an elegant, dignified gentleman this vampire is.  A true philosopher and scholar, and exceedingly well groomed.  Who would not swoon before such a creature?”

Geralt lost the fight to maintain a straight face at that and laughed out loud.  Regis’s grin grew almost impossibly wide in response, showing more than a hint of fang.  The dying fire popped but its dim light was increasingly dwarfed by the dawn shining through the trees.  Geralt had meant to press more about what Syanna had told him, but now didn’t feel like the time.  The drinks had run dry and there wasn’t much point in lingering here, not anymore.  If anything more needed to be said, there would be plenty of time for that in the coming weeks and months.  For now, Geralt was tired, and he could tell his friend was too.

“So, Regis.  You agree to come destroy my reputation?  Or are you going to vanish the moment I look away and I’ll have to have Yen track you down?”

“As if she could,” Regis scoffed.  “I am a higher vampire—”

“—who won’t be able to avoid her forever,” Geralt finished for him.  “Believe me, you do not want to give her something to chew on for years.  That woman can hold a grudge.”

“Well,” Regis sighed, making a good show of looking annoyed but with an unmistakable sparkle in his eyes.  “I suppose I’ve no choice then.  But Geralt, I’m serious.  If this puts you in an undue amount of danger, I’ll not have it.”

“Guess you’ll just have to watch me sleep very carefully then.  Now, are you packed to go or…?”

Regis turned sheepish and alarm bells went off in Geralt’s head.  “Well…yes…technically.  But I had expected to be forced to travel quite a long way, and travel lightly.  If I’m not to leave the duchy after all, well there are some books…quite a few, actually…that I’d rather not leave behind…”

Geralt just stared for a long moment as his friend trickled into silence.  He should have expected as much.  “Let me guess. _Care and Feeding of Humans: Special Witcher Edition_?”

“Of course not,” Regis huffed, looking genuinely affronted.  He always took matters relating to books far too seriously.  “I know you’re not a great fan of reading, but you’re a man of no small intelligence either, despite what you would have others believe.  There are a few tomes I’ve collected that might even interest you, from old—”

“ _Fine_ ,” Geralt growled.  “Enough.  I’ll hire a damn wagon then.  A wagon of _books_.  Starting to regret this already.”

“Funny,” Regis grinned. “Because I’m only just starting to realize how absolutely _delightful_ this is going to be.”

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost exactly a year later, here's part 2! Hahaha...yeah. I had some things I wanted to say that I didn't get to fit into the first part, but it took me ages to figure out how to build an actual second chapter around them. Not sure I quite managed it here either, but I pushed them as far as I felt I could :P Still feeling pretty uncertain about whether it all hangs together here as well, so if you guys have any constructive criticism please share! And I hope you enjoy this attempt :) The Witcher fandom is lovely. ❤

*

**III.**

 

 

“So.  Let me guess.  _You’re_ the giant of Mont Crane.”

“What, you don’t reckon I’m giant enough?  The ladies sure seem to think so….hehehe…”

Geralt eyed the sheen of fresh ogroid oil on his silver sword with disgust.  _What a waste_.  It was one of Regis’s new ‘enhanced’ blends too, which meant he’d have to report this whole sorry escapade to the vampire to explain why he still didn’t know whether his experiment was a success.  Wouldn’t that be fun.

Before him, in the rather large but crumbling entrance arch to an abandoned stone fort, stood one of the largest humans Geralt had ever seen.  Size, in this case, seemed like it might have granted great physical strength as compensation for the clear absence of corresponding gifts of the mind; while the man could probably have picked Geralt up and tossed him back down the hill one-handed, only a truly profoundly stupid person would have placed a contract on his own head.

“Let me give you some free advice,” Geralt growled.  “Monster hunting’s not the most cheerful business.  What with all the slime and blood and grievous wounds, and the trekking through mud and bogs for ungrateful, idiotic peasants – that would be you, by the way – well, it’s enough to make one fairly grumpy.  Lucky for you, I’m not in the business of taking contracts just to keep myself fed, not anymore.  Next hunter who answers your posting likely won’t be feeling so generous, and might be tempted to take your head and help themselves to whatever you got squirreled away in those ruins as a reward for a job well done.  So unless you like the idea of your head hanging on a wall like a _real_ giant’s, you’ll take down that embarrassment of a contract and get the word out that there is no giant in Mont Crane.”

It was hard for any distinct expression to form on the great pudgy face with its little beady eyes, but Geralt thought the brute looked at least a little annoyed, which was a start.  Enough of one to consider his duty discharged for today.  Dealing with the stupidity of peasants was often more exhausting than whatever they were ostensibly paying him for in the first place, but Geralt felt obliged to at least try to leave the situation better than he found it.

The witcher turned and started down the rocky trail back to the road, resigned that his Path would only lead him back home for the day.  He wiped the worst of the oil off his sword with a spare rag as he went, ignoring the mostly incoherent insults tossed at his back.  By the time the idiot giant started tossing more tangible things, Geralt was safely out of range.

With plenty of daylight left, Geralt was in no rush to get home, so he gave Roach her head and tried to enjoy the peace and beauty of Touissant’s countryside.  It was one of the few pleasures of the witcher’s life that Geralt had always treasured, and one that was much more enjoyable without the scouring winds and rains of the north.  When you were in nature as much as a witcher was, you became attuned to the heartbeat of the forest, the soul of the ecosystems you passed through.  There was a kind of companionship to be found when you became aware of the life all around you, and made yourself a harmonious part of that endless tapestry.

And so of course that peace was shattered by yet more human stupidity.

“Oi!  Yer a witcher, aint ye?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the accent, which sounded distinctly Velen.  Nothing good ever came out of Velen.

“Already seen to the giant,” Geralt growled, pitching his voice to be heard but not bothering to turn around.  “You can all rest easy.”

“Ehh, I don’t know about no giant, but there’s a dragon ripping up some poor sod back there.  Ain’t it yer job to clear out vermin like that?”

Normally, Geralt would snap that it was only his job if someone was willing to _pay_ him for it, but the dragon part had caught his attention.  Of course, peasants the world over would fall all over themselves to label anything large and vaguely lizard-y a dragon, but in this area of Toussaint…

_Isabella?_

He finally turned around in his saddle to look at the other rider who, he was surprised to notice, was dressed in the colourful garb of a Touissant local despite the pinched features and vaguely constipated look of aggression that was unmistakably Velen.

“Where did you see this dragon?”

The peasant waved back in the direction Geralt had come.  “Back up that aways.  Near that old wrecked up fort.”

Geralt felt a headache start up behind his left eye.  _Of course._

 

***

 

Geralt heard the fight long before he saw it, but the first scream to reach his ears wasn’t that of a partially devoured human like he’d expected and, honestly, had somewhat hoped for.  Instead it was a piercing, shivering cry that seemed to physically distort the very air of the forest.  It started thin and high, like a banshee’s wail, and then built to a booming explosion of sound that seemed to make the earth quake and caused Roach to lose her footing for a moment.  Geralt eased up on the reins, not wanting his horse to injure herself, but everything in him wanted to push her past endurance to find the source of that sound.

Because that was the sound of a dragon.  A real dragon.  And it was terrified.

He heard versions of that same scream twice more before he finally caught sight of the combatants.  He spotted the dragon first, not because it was bigger, but because it blazed hot white like a fallen star.  And it was, undeniably, a _dragon._   It was about the size of a large dog, plus an extra meter or so in tail, with tiny wings hanging limply at his sides, underdeveloped and clearly incapable of any kind of flight.  The webbing on one was torn and bloody, the red of the blood almost obscenely stark against the brilliant white, while a second gash gaped open in the dragon’s flank, the scales probably still too soft to serve as effective armor, and it cradled one forepaw to its chest.  Blood stained its bared fangs as well, but it was easy to see who was losing this fight.  It was backing up slowly towards a sheer rock face, tail lashing behind it in a serpentine motion like an angry snake, hissing and growling while a rattle at the back of its throat built up to another scream.  Its eyes, pupils blown wide with fear and panic, gleamed with intelligence. 

Geralt had no idea where it had come from or where its mother was.  He did know he wasn’t about to let a sentient child die here, slaughtered at the hands of an idiot.

Because it was in fact the fake ‘giant’ who was advancing on the dragon.  He’d found a rusty broadsword somewhere, and had it hefted up easily over his head like a club in a disturbing display of strength.  His right arm was bloody, the visible skin a bluish black as if frostbitten, but he didn’t seem to notice the injury at all.  Geralt had a spare moment to regret wiping off the ogroid oil, and then he was pulling out his steel sword and vaulting off Roach’s back.

The dragon whirled and hissed at his approach, but Geralt ignored it, hoping it would get the message that it was not his target.  The man didn’t notice him at all, but out of some misguided sense of morality, Geralt aimed to disarm rather than kill. 

That was a mistake.

His first strike found its target, the pummel of his sword striking the man’s hand hard enough that it opened reflexively and dropped the broadsword.  But in a stunning display of violent instincts unencumbered by intelligent thought, the man reacted not at all to the lost sword and simply pivoted and punched Geralt in the throat.

Or, what would have been the throat for a normal human with normal reaction times.  Even taken by surprise as he was, Geralt managed to duck enough to catch the blow on the corner of his temple instead, which was a slight improvement.  The hit still sent him spinning to the ground, dazed.  He’d known the man was strong, but that was like being bowled over by a charging fiend.    

Through blurred vision, he watched the brute pick up his broadsword as if he had all the time in the world.  The wounded dragon gave a squeaky kind of snarl and made a feinting lunge behind him, but the man didn’t even notice.  He was consumed by some intense thought, his beady eyes squinting through some vague semblance of emotion.

“Show you who’s a real giant,” he was muttering to himself.

_Regis is going to be so pissed if I let this idiot kill me._

With that motivating thought, Geralt finally located a bottle of Swallow on his belt and drained the contents.  Almost immediately his vision narrowed and sharpened, and he felt the fog clearing.  That heady, dangerous feeling of potion-fueled vitality swept through him, brushing aside all his body’s complaints.  He staggered to his feet, the tip of his steel sword trailing through the grass.

He’d been as merciful as he could be.  That time had now passed.

The man roared a wordless, angry cry and charged, broadsword held aloft, but Geralt was taking no chances this time.  He traced the sign of Yrden quickly on the ground, stepped back, and waited.  As soon as the giant’s toe crossed the line, Geralt stepped aside, smooth as a cat, and in a graceful dance-like pirouette, brought the edge of his sword down on the back of the man’s neck.

Blood spurted and Geralt leapt back out of range.  The man’s momentum carried him into a forward sprawl, even as his head went spinning off in a different direction.  Geralt surveyed the carnage and felt only a vast sense of weariness.

 _What a waste_.

He turned around, but as he’d expected, the dragon was gone.  It was some consolation that it hadn’t been injured too badly to escape, but the amount of blood left on the grass wasn’t reassuring.  Geralt tracked the blood trail half-heartedly for a little while, but when it disappeared abruptly in the middle of an open field, he gave it up.  He wouldn’t find a dragon that didn’t want to be found, even a baby one, and he probably couldn’t do much for it even if he did find it.  Perhaps Regis could, but Regis wasn’t here.

The weariness returned, and with it a surprising amount of homesickness.  The sun was getting low, setting the golden fields of Touissant ablaze with orange light, and it would be dark soon.  He was still a fair distance from home, and if he didn’t leave soon he’d be riding part of the way in the dark.  Roach hated that.

With a final reluctant look at the bloodstains and the open field, Geralt started the long trek to retrace his tracks, whistling for Roach as he went. 

 

***

 

The sun sank, and with it, Geralt’s mood.  All during the ride home, his thoughts had circled ever closer around a dark pit of cynicism and defeat, dwelling on the general hopelessness of humanity and his own particular failings, and by the time he reached the gates of Corvo Bianco, the blackness of the night matched his mental state perfectly.  Even the sight of warm, welcoming light in the windows of the main house failed to cheer him, instead merely sending his thoughts in a different but equally depressing direction.

Over the few months of Regis’s stay, the vampire’s company had come to mean quite a bit more to Geralt than he had been expecting.  He’d expected to be annoyed by the constant commentary and ruminating, exasperated by the concerned hovering, and generally irritated by having another being so constantly in his space.  He’d expected to deal with spells of melancholy.  He’d expected to be persona non grata for a while in Toussaint when he had to banish his entire staff and spread the word that no one was to come near Corvo Bianco, especially at night.  He’d expected, too, to have more than a few sleepless nights, kept awake by slavering vampires at the gates and Regis’s red-eyed stare in the dark and a bottle of mandrake hooch.

And all that had happened.  Geralt had killed more lesser vampires in those first few weeks than he had in the last few years.  They stopped trying to break into the house itself after the first few days, but they had swarmed around the grounds in such numbers that more than once Geralt had considered simply setting fire to the whole place and being done with it all; he doubted there would be enough vampires in all of Touissant to repopulate after such a massacre.  But since then, things had slowly improved.  Geralt could still hear them outside most nights, but the feverish edge seemed to have worn off their rage, and they no longer threw themselves against the warding lines Geralt had laid around the grounds.  He still had to wade through a few katakans if he came home after dark, but overall, things were improving.

What Geralt hadn’t expected was how quickly he’d become attached to the concept of a real _home_ , and how quickly Regis would become a part of that.  It was an odd feeling.  Geralt hadn’t really made a solid decision about settling in Touissant himself when he made Regis the offer; truth be told, he’d thought very little of it through.  But now that he’d lived this life for a time, he could feel himself growing some worryingly thick roots.  He still took contracts, still journeyed across the countryside, sometimes beyond the borders of Touissant.  But he no longer even questioned where he would be at the end of each day, of each journey.  Having a warm hearth to return to, and someone to lend a sympathetic ear, to share his day with…someone he could trust with his mistakes, with his feelings (such as they were), who wouldn’t judge and who always had insights or stories to offer in return…well, it was a luxury Geralt wasn’t used to, and it pulled him home to the vineyard every day like a lodestone. 

But Regis was struggling.  Geralt was many things, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He could tell Detlaff’s death weighed heavily on his friend, could see it in the occasional dark day the vampire spent in the alchemy lab, or in the long silent moments that Regis lost staring into the hearth fire at night, something deeper than grief in his eyes.  And there was something else, too.  Something that cut the vampire’s laughs short sometimes, that added an edge of pain to his smiles.

_There’s a point where willful ignorance becomes just as cruel, Geralt._

He had never discussed Syanna’s words with Regis, even though he knew he should have.  If there was even the slightest truth to what she’d said, Geralt owed it to his friend to try to ease that burden.  Not that he really believed any of it, of course.  What would Regis see in _him_ , of all people?  But…well.  That was no excuse not to ask.  Truth was it was just going to be a damned difficult conversation, and he had been avoiding it. 

Geralt grimaced to himself as he unsaddled Roach in the vineyard stables.  He’d screwed up enough for one day.  Time to stop being a coward.

He found Regis at the table in front of a crackling fire, scribbling something in one of his little notebooks.  Judging from the thoughtful look on his face, it was more likely alchemical formulae than anything too melancholy.  A good sign.

“Eat without me?” Geralt grunted as he dumped his swords haphazardly on the table by the door.  Regis grimaced slightly at the clang, no doubt envisioning oil smearing and burning through the varnish, but didn’t bother to look up from his notebook.  The house was as warm and inviting on the inside as it had looked from the outside, and Geralt felt some of the tension he was carrying uncoil in the warmth.

“It was my understanding,” Regis said, sounding rather miffed but not bothering to pause in his writing, “that you had, and I quote, already used up eight of your nine lives surviving my concoctions so far, and did not wish to further push your luck.”

Geralt managed a grin.  With Marlene still absent, Regis had taken on the duty of cook with somewhat worrying enthusiasm.  With only himself and Geralt to prepare for, he’d apparently felt unbound by the normal conventions of what constituted, well, _food_ , and some of his creations had been…interesting, to say the least.

“That still leaves me with one life then, doesn’t it?” Geralt countered cheerfully.  “Can’t think of a better way to go, truthfully.  At home, warm and comfortable, poisoned by a friend.”

Regis gave him a flat look.  “Yes, I cannot imagine why I did not take the time today to so lovingly craft another meal for you.  Such gratitude.”

“That’s what they call me.  The Grateful Wolf.”  Geralt flopped carelessly down on the bench beside Regis, swivelling to face the fire.  Touissant never grew as bitterly cold as Velen or Skellige, but fall was creeping in, and the heat was lovely against his boots and hands.  After a moment appreciating it, he nabbed the pitcher Regis had been using and poured himself a cup.

“More like the Beggar Wolf,” Regis snorted.  “You don’t even know what’s in there.”

Suddenly wary, Geralt paused with the cup nearly touching his lip.  It certainly _smelled_ like alcohol.  He watched Regis’s face carefully, but the vampire was too damn good at holding a poker face when it suited him.

Oh, hell.  It probably wouldn’t kill him.

“Decoction of green mold,” Regis was gasping out moments later between attacks of laughter as Geralt attempted to turn his stomach lining inside out and eject it onto the floor.  “And fermented foglet tongue, among other things.  Really, Geralt—”

“Why the _hell_ are you drinking fucking _mold_ Regis, what the _fuck_ —“

“—not to steal other people’s beverages without asking them first, never mind other _species_ —“

“—I swear to the fucking conjunction Regis, if you were planning to put _mold_ in dinner tonight—”

“—it really does seem to smother the blood cravings you know, and my _complexion_ —”

“—fucking show you how to smother your fucking cravings, bet a good chunk of silver will help with that—

They both paused for air at the same moment, their eyes meeting, and then whatever complaints they had yet to voice were lost to laughter.  Geralt could still feel the rotten-pond-scum texture of the mold on his tongue, but it had burned his throat going down and he felt a bit fuzzy around the edges now, so he must have been right about the alcohol, too.

It took them a while to get their breath back, long enough that Geralt began reconsidering his decision to broach a potentially difficult conversation tonight.  It seemed to be one of Regis’s good days.  What was the harm in preserving that, for one more night?  The warmth of the fire and the joy of the company was seductive, and Geralt had almost completely changed his mind when Regis spoke again.

“So, my friend, you must tell me: how was the enhanced ogroid oil?  You did remember not to touch it, didn’t you?  Because the burns—”

“Didn’t get a chance,” Geralt cut him off, not eager for another repeat of the long list of safety warnings.  Not that he particularly wanted to talk about this, either, but he didn’t have much choice.  “No giant in Mont Crane.  Just an idiot.”

Regis raised an inquiring brow.  “Do tell.”

Geralt huffed, looking away and eyeing the mold-jug longingly, weighing the alcohol-to-mold ratio in his mind.  “Idiot put out a contract on his own head.   Thought it would make him seem impressive somehow I guess, but who the hell knows.  Pretty sure the world was trying to do me a favour there, but I didn’t take the hint.  Instead of killing him there, I killed him later, but by then he’d already butchered a fledgling dragon.”  Geralt could hear the bitterness in his own voice, but he was tired and couldn’t be bothered to hide it.  This was Regis.  If there was anyone he could trust with his wounds, it was him.

“A dragon?  Truly?  Are you—”  Regis cut himself off with a bitter twist to his mouth.  “No, of course you’re sure.  A dragon…I had not heard of a mating pair nesting anywhere in the area, but I suppose if it was close to fledging and the parents decided on a first trip, perhaps down from the mountains…a new family can cover a lot of ground, but the journey is always risky on the younglings.  A _dragon_ …truly, Geralt, that is a tragedy.  I am sorry, my friend.”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunted.  “Should’ve known better.”

“Geralt,” Regis snapped, and the harshness of his tone made the witcher blink and look up to meet his eyes for the first time since he’d started the story.  “Stop that this instant.  I’ll not stand by and let you punish yourself simply for failing to play god to your own satisfaction.  You would have saved that child if you could, and I know you tried to the best of your abilities.  Would you have rather killed the man in cold blood, when he posed no threat to you?”

“Yeah,” Geralt persisted, mulishly.  Regis rolled his eyes, clearly done with Geralt’s nonsense.  Geralt didn’t blame him.

“Now you’re just being difficult.  You are not that man.  Never once have I witnessed you kill without the gravest of reasons.  You had no way of knowing what he would later do, and as far as I know, idiocy is still not a crime.  Why, some simpletons go on to lead lives of truly enviable cheer, uncomplicated by the broader concerns that so preoccupy you or I.  I for one would not want to snatch that innocence away from them without reason.”

Normally, Geralt would allow himself to be diverted and entertained by the vampire’s newest tangent, but this dark cloud was sticking.  He needed to get this out.  “Listen, Regis—” he started, but immediately sputtered to a stop, completely at a loss on what to actually say, now that the moment was here.

“Geralt?”  Regis leaned toward him, abandoning his notepad completely now and leaning one elbow on the pockmarked wood of the table to better catch Geralt’s eye.  The concern on his face was so genuine it hurt to see.  “What is it?”

Geralt huffed a sigh.  He was no good at this.  “There anything you’re not telling me?”

The vampire pulled back, confused now and a little hurt.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

Of course he didn’t.  There was no way to say this without actually saying it, was there?  And if Regis turned his back on Geralt in pure affront at the question, well, it was no more than Geralt deserved, what with the thoughts he’d had about the vampire on occasion.

“Syanna…said some things,” Geralt tried, haltingly.  “Implied…some things.  About you and me.”

There.  What clarity.  What courage.  Geralt almost took another swig of mold in shame.

“Things,” Regis echoed doubtfully.  “ _Syanna_ said?  You mean…months ago?  How long has this been bothering you for?”

“Yeah,” Geralt confirmed vaguely.  “Listen, it’s probably nothing, but the way you’ve been acting…just had to make sure nothing I was doing was weighing on you too, with all the rest you have to deal with.”

Regis frowned at him a moment longer until something seemed to occur to him and all uncertainty lifted from his expression.  He leaned toward Geralt, hands clasped together on the tabletop.  The firelight glinting in his eyes made them seem over-bright, as if they were lit from within by some vampiric sorcery.

“Geralt, I assure you, my feelings are not in any way your responsibility.  Please believe me when I say that you have only ever been a source of support and inspiration in this difficult time.  I am grateful beyond words for your friendship and all that you’ve done, and I honestly have never expected anything further.  Do not let me add to the burdens you carry, please.  I simply could not bear it.”

Geralt stared.  The world seemed to tilt slightly sideways.  He wondered foggily if perhaps Regis had been replaced by a doppler.

“Geralt?”  Regis paused, ceasing his concerned survey of Geralt’s face as comprehension dawned.  He retracted his hands to curl them around his mug.  “Oh dear.  You didn’t know.”

Geralt only shook his head wordlessly.  Regis’s mug made an ominous cracking sound and he released it, pushing it safely out of reach.  He laid his palms flat on the table in a clear attempt at calm, but he did not look at Geralt.

“Do you wish me to leave?”  The words were like ice, jagged and brittle, a thin frozen shell over a well of strong feeling.  They jolted Geralt out of his shock.

He still had no idea what to say, but he’d always been better with actions than with words anyway, and he knew he needed to reassure his friend _now_.  So he lurched forward, wrapping one of his own battle-scarred hands around Regis’s forearm in a very deliberate hold.  Regis didn’t react at first, a testament to just how carefully contained he was holding himself, but when he finally looked up Geralt held his gaze steadily and didn’t look away.  For a long moment they just looked at each other, sharing space and contact in front of the warm hearth, and gradually Regis’s expression thawed.  Hesitantly, Regis covered Geralt’s hand with one of his own, his extra-long nails looking oddly natural alongside Geralt’s scars.  When the witcher didn’t pull away, the tension bled out of the vampire’s posture.

“I am sorry, my friend.  That is not how I intended you to find out.  To be honest, I had not intended you to find out at all, but my hopes were not high in that regard.  I did not think I had been terribly subtle.”

“Might have noticed this,” Geralt grunted, “but I don’t really do subtle.”

Regis huffed a laugh, and silence descended again.  Geralt, though usually happiest in silence, found this one was unsettling him.  Confusion made him feel uncertain in his own skin, questions nibbling at his thoughts like hungry insects.

“Why?” he blurted, finally.  Regis gave him a wry look that didn’t quite manage to conceal his nerves.  His hand retracted to fiddle with the lapel of his coat; if he’d been wearing his medicine bag, he’d have been clutching the strap.

“Surely, Geralt, I needn’t explain biological processes to you—”

“ _Regis_.”

Regis waited, but when it became clear that the witcher wasn’t going to offer any further hints, he sighed and turned thoughtful.  The fire popped and something screamed outside, but neither vampire nor witcher paid it any heed.

“You mean…why you?”

Geralt almost flinched away from the gentleness in his voice, but managed a nod while staring determinedly into the fire.   

“Oh, my dear friend.  I shall never understand, given your often searing insights into others, how you cannot see what a wonder you are.”

Geralt huffed, but there was a bitter twist to his lips.  “Right.  Know at least one sorceress who’d disagree with you there.”

“Ah yes, the lovely Yennefer.  I don’t doubt you were a trial for her at times; in fact, I believe I can imagine the scenario quite easily.  But might I hazard a guess that she can be quite the difficult woman herself?  These matters are never simple.”

Geralt kept quiet, but he couldn’t argue with that.  It was true that Yen had always been at least as difficult as he was.  It was part of the reason he’d thought they were such a perfect match, at the time.  How could he ask someone to put up with his own inadequacies without accepting however much pain they wished to deal out, in return?

“I’m not Yennefer, Geralt,” Regis continued, his tone increasingly calm and steady as he warmed to his subject.  It was akin to an enthusiastic lecture of the vampire’s on herbs or philosophy, and Geralt wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  “I am quite sure I have my own annoying habits, but I flatter myself that I do try to be patient and understanding to the best of my abilities.  I _know_ you.  I see you more clearly than most, I dare say.  The world derides you as an unfeeling monster, but the truth is just the opposite.  You are thoughtful, and empathic, and kind.  You are curious.  You have no tolerance for prejudice and cruelty, and you are so careful with your judgements in a world where everyone else seems to be in a race to cast their own.  You go out of your way to help where you can, for those who seem deserving, because you desperately want the world to stop disappointing you.  Though it beggars belief, you still haven’t given up looking for those glimmers of hope.  I’ve long believed that if any mortal could love one of my kind, _truly_ love them in full knowledge of their nature without need of any comforting lies, it would be you, Geralt.”

“Regis…”  Geralt felt flayed open, vulnerable and exposed in a way he hadn’t felt since…before he left Kaer Morhen for the first time, perhaps.  This much positive regard felt blinding, like looking straight into the sun; he’d certainly never received such a thing from Yen.  He didn’t know how to handle it.  The way Regis described him… _whoever_ the vampire was describing, he sounded like a hero.  Geralt was no hero.  He didn’t know much for certain in this world, but he knew that.

And yet…a part of him wanted to believe it.  Wanted to believe that despite his monstrousness, despite all the horrible things he’d done, that someone could watch him and talk with him and see clear through all the scarring and blood stains to the human being still in there somewhere, just trying to find an honest path through the darkness.  Mostly he knew better than that, knew he didn’t deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt, but that small part of him wanted to take Regis’s words and tattoo them on his soul, keep them so close he’d never lose them no matter how dark the night got.

This once, someone had looked at him and seen something beautiful.  It wasn’t likely to happen a second time.

“I’ve no doubt you wish to argue with me,” Regis said, “so I’ll save you the time and tell you that it’s pointless.  I am a rather good judge of character, you know, and I’ve had quite a lot of time to form my opinion on this front.  Whether or not you can see it in yourself, you’ll have to accept that at least one person thinks quite highly of you, without compromise.  Or one vampire, anyway.  For whatever that’s worth.”

Geralt’s jaw worked soundlessly for a minute before the words would come out.  “It’s worth a lot, Regis.”  He swallowed, traced the flight of a firefly in the night air, anything to buy himself time before he said what had to come next.  Regis deserved to hear it, but saying the words would be difficult.  “…You want to hear what I think?”

Gratifyingly, Regis looked just as daunted by that as Geralt felt.  His eyes flicked away for a moment and Geralt watched as his friend gathered himself, his gray hair seeming to turn steely in the firelight.

“I would be honoured,” Regis said, and met his eyes straight on.  Geralt could see fear there, but also steady determination.  Geralt forced himself to hold the gaze.  Regis needed to see that he meant it.

“You, Regis, are a better person than most actual people I know.  You find the good in people that most would dismiss as beyond redemption, and your willingness to give everyone the benefit of the doubt would’ve killed you many times over by now if you weren’t immortal.  You are incapable of keeping your thoughts to yourself for any significant length of time, even when you are boring your friends to tears.”  Regis huffed a laugh at that and Geralt smiled wryly back.  He’d started strong, at least.  “You have a frankly disturbing love of moldy old crypts, depressing poetry, and strange trivia that no one in their right mind would care about.  You are not at all what I ever imagined a higher vampire would be like, but I find myself comparing everyone I meet now to you, mortal or monster.  You are incredibly loyal to those you care about, and for my part, there is nothing you could do or say that would make me turn away from you.”

Regis swallowed hard and looked down, absorbing those words as if he’d just been dealt a physical blow.  A feeling of resigned doom swept over Geralt.  This had been a mistake.   What in the world did he know about being emotional and honest?  He’d always known his inner thoughts would be a disappointment to whoever he shared them with, lacking in some fundamental way that he would never understand himself.  He wasn’t _built_ for this.  But then Regis looked back at Geralt and there was a soft look in his eyes the witcher had never seen before, and he was smiling.

“See?” Regis said, and there was something in his voice that made Geralt feel warm and nervous all at the same time.  “I was right about you.”

The feeling of doom cleared, and his heart attempted some weird swooping motion that at a witcher’s slow heartrate felt more like a beached whale trying to flip over.  It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling, but all the same, Geralt decided he had more than filled his quota of emotional conversations for one day.

Regis seemed to read some of that in his face, for his mouth quirked up in a smile and he clapped a friendly hand on Geralt’s shoulder.  “I have an idea.”

Geralt eyed the vampire warily.  “I bet you do.”

“Such suspicion!  And after I’ve been singing your praises too.  I’m wounded.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, your tragic lack of enthusiasm aside, my idea stands.  What say you to a midnight stroll through the Toussaint countryside?”

Geralt gave him a flat look.  “You forget about our rabid fans out there?”

But Regis only grinned, a wild, gleeful thing that showed more than a hint of fang.  He looked, to Geralt’s professional eye, like he was ready to cheerfully rip someone apart.

“My dear witcher, let them try.  I have in mind an entirely more _exotic_ quarry.”

 

***

 

“What a terrible idea,” Geralt grumbled to no one.

Night had fallen and the moon was high.  From Geralt’s lonely little hill, the moonlight cast everything in a soft, ethereal glow, making the forest past his valley look like something out of a fairy tale, the kind where little children ran off after mysterious singing and were never heard from again.  It also provided plenty of illumination see that fuck all was happening around him.  Of course, that didn’t stop Geralt from getting increasingly paranoid and spooked the longer he was left here in dubious peace.  In his experience, true peace was often only a by-product of something really dangerous lurking and waiting to pounce, while all the merely mildly dangerous things kept their distance.

And plenty of really dangerous things would like to see Regis dead.

After investigating the scene of the dragon’s injury, Regis had led them a short ways out of the forest before distractedly telling Geralt to wait and puffing off as smoke.  Lacking any better options, Geralt was doing just that.  But he didn’t have to be happy about it.

“I believe I’ve found her,” Regis said by his ear, nearly giving Geralt a heart attack.  He jumped and spun, to find Regis still in the midst of coalescing into solid form, his amused grin one of the only things immediately visible.

“Dammit, Regis,” Geralt snarled reflexively.  Ever since their conversation at the vineyard, Regis had been acting weirdly hyper, like a kid on a sugar rush, darting here and there, puffing into smoke without warning and just as quickly reforming in unexpected places.  Of course, since he was a higher vampire and not a chubby toddler, terms like _moon madness_ and _blood frenzy_ came more immediately to mind for Geralt.  It took a moment longer for the words to sink in.  “You what?”

“I’ve found her.  Or I believe so, anyway.  It will require some encouragement for her to make herself visible again.”

“Again?  She’s alive?”

“She is!  This way, Geralt.”

Hardly daring to hope, Geralt did.  They moved as fast as they could, though he could tell his plodding, mortal pace was making Regis edgy.  It was far, too; past the Fort Ussar ruins and into the foothills of the mountains to the east, up a long, winding mountain trail and to the mouth of a small cave.  There they paused, and Geralt noticed his breath was fogging in front of his face, though the altitude wasn’t nearly high enough yet for such a sharp temperature drop.

“Cast Quen, if you please.”

Geralt wasn’t quite following, but Regis seemed to be vibrating in place so he did as told without questions.  The golden shield was a reassuring glint in the corner of his eye as he descended into the cave after the vampire.

The tunnel was narrow, but surprisingly deep, and the temperature seemed to drop further with every step.  Soon it would have been cold enough to make a human shiver, and even Geralt was feeling uncomfortable.  Regis, of course, didn’t even slow down until they reached the end of the tunnel and stepped into a larger, open cavern.

“She’s here, I’m sure of it,” Regis murmured.  “Cast Yrden on the floor and Igni at the walls, if you please.  But slowly.  We don’t wish to startle her.”

Geralt stared at Regis in the dark.  “Getting hit with a blast of fire would startle me quite a bit, personally.”

Regis’s fangs flashed as he smiled.  “It’ll only cheer her up, you’ll see.  They feed off magic, even the young ones.”

“If you say so.”  Geralt cast Yrden and then turned a dubious eye on the walls, now lit by the ghostly purple glow of the trap spell.  As far as he could tell, there was nothing else in the cavern.  His medallion wasn’t even so much as twitching.  But then, it didn’t twitch for Regis either, and if the higher vampire said she was here, then…

The blast of Igni was startling after being in the dark so long.  The whole wall was lit up for long moments after, small individual fires taking seconds longer to go out, and leaving scorch marks in their wake.  But nothing moved.

“Try the other direction,” Regis suggested.  “Behind you.”

Obligingly, Geralt turned.  The darkness was deeper now, his eyes no longer adjusted to the black, and he felt like he was casting blindly.  Again, the cavern was lit up with fire, and again, nothing moved.

“Maybe—” Regis started, and then abruptly fell silent.  Geralt spun around.  They were no longer alone.

A white shape, about the size of a large shepherd dog, stood at edge of the Yrden circle.  Up close, its skeletal structure seemed even more canine-like, if one subtracted the wings and stubby horns and long, pointed tail: its four long legs bent like a dog’s, its head was large but narrowed to a long, tapered snout that ended in large canines that peeked out from its slightly open mouth.  Its ice-blue eyes were fixed on Geralt, the fear and desperation in them so human and undeniable that it left Geralt slightly breathless.  Where its wing was injured there was now a fine coating of frost, like a bandage made from dew and ice crystals.

Regis made a small, awed sound, probably without meaning to.  Geralt stood frozen, not daring to move or even breathe.

Slowly, so slowly, the dragon lowered its injured paw and placed it on the very edge of the spell circle.  The whole circle flared with bright, violet light and then, pulsing as if in sync with a beating heart, drained of colour until it was nothing more than a chalky outline on the cave floor.  Ice crystals sparkled on the dragon’s foot now, too.

“Hit her with Igni, Geralt,” Regis whispered.  “Trust me.”

That still seemed like a horrible idea to Geralt, but he did trust Regis.  The fire burst over the dragon, and at first it seemed like it had swallowed her whole, but then something started glowing through the flames.  When the fire died out the dragon was still there, unharmed but glowing bright, star-white like she had in the clearing where Geralt had found her.  At first he could hardly look straight at her, but gradually the glow dimmed until he could make out details again, like the fine latticework of ice that now coated her entire flank where she’d been struck.

“More,” Regis said.

So Geralt cast Igni again.  And again.  And again, until the dragon had soaked up enough magic to leave Geralt woozy and was rolling around happily on the floor of the cave like a kitten.  Panting, Geralt let his hand drop.  He’d known dragons could absorb magic, but he hadn’t known it could work quite like this.

“Think she likes it,” he noted.  Regis chuckled.

“She needs to heal.  That takes quite a bit of energy.”  They observed the dragon together for a moment, watching as her rolling slowed and she appeared to drift off to sleep.  “She’s beautiful,” Regis sighed.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, because it was undeniably true.  She was beautiful, and strong, and she would survive.  He watched the gentle rise and fall of the dragon’s flank, the pristine white of her scales and the strong line of her jaw, the way her paws started to twitch on the cave floor as she sank into some sort of dream, and he felt a weight rise from his heart.  She would be okay.  He hadn’t killed her.  And things with Regis might still be complicated, and probably would for a while longer, but he thought they would probably be okay too.

Then Regis turned to look Geralt full in the face, and Geralt went on immediate alert.  That mischievous expression never ended well.  “You know...she will be needing parents.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.  “Sure she already has some.  Must be a mother dragon out there, worried to bits.”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  In the meantime…well, I’m certainly glad one of us has relevant experience.”

“Are you kidding?” Geralt growled.  “I don’t know the first thing about baby dragons.”

“I think Ciri turned out quite well.”

“Sure she’d be flattered at the comparison, but Ciri’s not actually a dragon.  Besides which, she chose to become a Witcher.  Not exactly the actions of a sane, well-adjusted girl.”

“To the contrary,” Regis countered, totally unruffled and still smiling a disturbingly goofy sort of smile.  “I can’t think of a more reasonable choice, given what she’s seen of the world.  It speaks well of her character, in fact, that she would choose to follow in the footsteps of the best person she knows, despite the hardships of the life.”

Geralt blinked, blindsided, and sighed.  “Dammit, Regis.”

Regis only grinned wider.  “You know, it really is completely unacceptable how bad you are at accepting honest compliments.  What if one of your contracts discovers this mortal weakness one day?  They could disarm you with a single word on your noble demeanor.  Clearly, this must be addressed at once.  I believe the only solution is to increase the dosage daily until you develop immunity.”

“Highly doubt any of my contracts is going to notice anything noble about me, Regis,” Geralt grumbled.  “Kinda goes against the whole reason they’re contracts.  Sides, I get compliments all the time.  Always hearing how ruggedly handsome and strong I am.”

Regis’s fangs flashed.  “Sorry, my dear.  While I don’t deny you are a truly capable and perhaps even gifted fighter, do keep in mind that I’ve lived rather a long time and seen rather a lot of gifted fighters.  Trust me, it was not your sword arm that drew me to you.”

“Notice you didn’t deny the ruggedly handsome bit,” Geralt said before he could help himself.  It was the normal rhythm of their banter, but too late he’d remembered why it might be different now; why it might _mean_ something different now.  Luckily, Regis simply took it in stride, sparing Geralt having to think about how he _had_ meant it.

“I did not,” Regis admitted easily, smile turning a bit wolfish.  “And I will not.  But it wasn’t your looks, either.”

“Hm.  Must’ve been the way I kept telling you to get lost, then.”

“Yes, of course.”  The vampire’s smile turned lopsided and a little sad.  “I never could stay away, could I?”

“No, you were a real pest.  Had no idea higher vampires could be so annoying.”  Geralt moved closer before the sting from that had a chance to settle, clapping a hand on Regis’s shoulder.  “Lucky for me.”

Regis’s eyes were soft, searching, and Geralt took a deep breath.  Distantly, he thought this shouldn’t feel as terrifying as it did.  Facing down a griffin was objectively much more dangerous than this moment, but you wouldn’t know it from the way his heart was racing up to near-human speed.  The idea that he could ruin the positive regard that he’d only so recently glimpsed, the conviction that he _would_ fuck things up if he attempted to give Regis what he wanted and inevitably failed, was the scariest thought he’d had in a long time.

Thankfully, Regis seemed to understand and didn’t press.  He merely laid his own hand over Geralt’s, leaving it there for a moment before flipping it so their fingers were linked.  With a soft sigh he turned back to the dragon, leaning towards Geralt so their shoulders touched but nothing further.  After a moment, Geralt returned the press, and they watched the softly sleeping white form together.  Her chest rose in even, shallow breaths, and her tail had curled around her protectively, the tip over her nose.  Frost had spread over the cave floor where she was resting, forming a sort of white, crystallized nest.  She looked like she was healing.  She looked safe.

Maybe this would work out.  Maybe it was worth the risk.  Maybe Regis was understanding enough to make up for all the ways that Geralt was not, or maybe the ways they both weren’t quite human would match up enough to get them through.  Either way, it was becoming increasingly clear to Geralt that a life lived with Regis by his side was to be vastly preferred over a life without him.

And if not, well.  The endless hordes of lesser vampires lurking resentfully around the outskirts of Corvo Bianco would be happy to put the both of them out of their misery.  And probably this dragon’s mother, when she finally tracked them down.

“…Guess you’re not gonna let me name this one Roach.”

“Not a chance in hell, Geralt.”

Oh, well.  The sacrifices one made for love.

 

*


End file.
